The Blackbird Falls Silent
by Belladonna Lee
Summary: Draco/Harry. Harry and Draco play games in various weather conditions, a harmless distraction that gives Harry a moment of respite from his past and present. On a certain rainy New Year's Eve, they meet up at the Leaky Cauldron to play one last game of the year.
1. Phase 1: Freefall

Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter and its characters are not mine.

A/N: This is written for the _newyearcntdown_ challenge on LJ. The prompts used in this part is _spiced cider._

 **The Blackbird Falls Silent**

 _Phase 1: Freefall_

Cold rain fell upon the metropolis and dampened everything in its path: holiday lights, pavement, the sound of the city, and people's spirit. It was not the kind of night to be out on the streets for merrymaking. On a certain empty street in a certain corner of the town was a certain shabby pub connecting one world to the next. Candlelight burnt low upon the wrought iron chandelier; firelight flickered in the soot-stained hearth. Smoke from someone's pipe hung in the air and soaked through the old wood of smoke-stained furniture. It was the kind of pub for clandestine activities.

Sitting by himself in a dimly lit corner, Harry flipped through his notebook. There was no need to pore over the content of the notebook he already knew by heart; he was merely keeping himself occupied while dissuading any curious patrons from bothering him. When Tom the innkeeper came over, bearing several cups on a wooden tray, Harry closed his notebook and slipped it into the inside pocket of his coat.

"Here we are." Tom placed one of the steaming cups on the table. "A cup of wassail to keep you warm on New Year's Eve. It's on the house." Tom grinned a toothless grin and winked at Harry.

"Thanks." Harry flashed Tom a grateful smile, his eyes falling away from Tom's friendly face and catching a glimpse of a certain someone who had just entered the pub. "Would you mind making it two cups? My date is here."

"Why certainly, Mr Potter. Anything for you." After placing another cup on the table, Tom turned around and slouched away. When a certain someone strode past him and headed towards Harry's table, he could not resist staring after the figure in question.

"Good evening. Is this seat taken?"

His lips curved into a smile, Harry looked up at Draco. Soft blond strands gleamed with a hint of dampness; the already pale face seemed a shade paler than usual; and the double-breasted dark coat smelled faintly of rain and smoke.

"Good evening." Harry returned the greeting while contemplating Draco's visage, but as always he could not tell what was on Draco's mind. "This seat is reserved for you."

"I'm flattered."

With a wave of his wand Draco dried himself, sat down beside Harry, and stared at the content of the cups. Knitting his brow, he nonetheless picked up a cup, held it to his lips, and took a tentative sip. As a shadow of warmth returned to his countenance, he let out a breath. "Not bad for a pub-quality concoction. Have you been here long?"

"I got here a few minutes ago." Harry watched Draco drink some more from the cup. "You look peaky. Are you all right?"

"It's the weather," Draco replied in a dismissive tone. Wrapping his hands around the cup, he surveyed his surroundings: a handful of patrons were scattered about in the gloom. "How are you these days? Still running around chasing leads for the Ministry?"

Harry shot Draco a sidelong glance. "I'm not an Auror anymore, remember?"

"They could summon you back to act as a consultant, and you wouldn't refuse." His lips twisted into a humourless smile, Draco fixed Harry with a long, hard look. "You can't stay away when someone asks for your help." There was no malice or mockery in Draco's words; instead, a hint of ruefulness seeped out of his voice.

Stricken with a spell of agitation, Harry did not want to talk about it anymore. "I'm working on staying away." He left it at that, reached for his cup of wassail, and sampled the auburn-hued drink. The drink tasted strongly of apple and liquor, beneath which lurked sweetness and spice that warmed up his body and calmed his mind. He sighed in appreciation. "This is really good. I should ask Tom for the recipe."

"He's not going to give you his secret recipe even if you are Harry Potter," Draco said in jest as he cast a disinterested glance at the rest of the pub. He could feel gazes discreet and otherwise directed at him and Harry. "It seems some people are looking for a good show."

Well aware of the stares they had garnered, Harry put down his cup and reached out to brush his thumb over Draco's bottom lip. "Shall we give them one?" A conspiring smirk from Draco was all the answer he needed.

His fingers lingering on Draco's shaven chin, Harry leant forward and caught Draco's lips with his lips. Someone beyond their corner of the pub gasped, but he ignored it. Instead, he concentrated on the mouth moving against his mouth, the hand resting on his thigh, and the taste of Draco—apple and spice and tobacco. When he drew away, he licked his lips before sending a cool look at their audience, who quickly averted their gaze and pretended to be nursing their drink.

"I can already imagine the title of Rita Skeeter's next article," Draco remarked in a sardonic tone before removing his hand from Harry's thigh. " _Disgraced hero performed lewd act on ex-Death Eater in public_ or something like that."

"Let her write whatever she wants. She probably enjoys digging into other people's love life so much because she isn't getting any herself." Resting his chin atop his folded hands, Harry crooked his head to one side with a quirk of a smile upon his lips. "Want to get a room upstairs? They have some cosy rooms here."

"The rain isn't going to stop any time soon, is it?" Draco mumbled, speaking more to himself than to Harry. It was little more than an excuse, and both Harry and Draco knew it. "I suppose this place is good enough for the night."

"Right." With that Harry called out to Tom, who, wiping his hands on his black apron, came over to their table. "May I have another cup of this? And..." Harry looked over to Draco, who gave him the slightest of a nod. "And another cup for him if you don't mind. I'll pay for both. Also, are there any rooms available tonight?"

* * *

 _To be continued..._

A/N: Wassail is a hot spiced cider of the alcoholic kind in English tradition. Thank you for reading.


	2. Phase 2: Blackout

Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter and its characters are not mine.

Warning: Sado-masochistic undertone

A/N: This is written for the _newyearcntdown_ challenge on LJ. The prompts used in this part is _peace._

 **The Blackbird Falls Silent**

 _Phase 2: Blackout_

In one of the bedrooms upstairs, the crackling fire in the grate cast warm light across the wooden floor and the worn rug before the bed. Shadows played upon the ceiling and the sturdy furniture made of oak. The white cover, the rustic blanket and the plump pillows on the bed looked inviting on this final night of revelry. The curtains were open, and with a casual wave of his hand Harry drew them close.

Throwing his coat onto a chair with little ceremony, Harry pulled off his jumper and the T-shirt underneath. Draco, on the other hand, hung up his coat properly in the wardrobe before loosening his tie and unbuttoning his shirt. Baring their bodies for each other's scrutiny, they came together in the middle of the room, hands roaming over naked skin. The tip of Draco's nose brushed against Harry's nose before their lips met in a kiss. Falling backwards onto the bed, Harry felt a hand gently take away his glasses before lips descended upon his once more.

He and Draco played games in various weather conditions, a harmless distraction that gave him a moment of respite from his past and present. It was one of the few times when he could cede his control over to someone else, a certain someone he could trust his despicable side with. Every time they met, his companion killed him, and he died a little before being revived. There was nothing divine about the experience, but he savoured the illusion of floating in nothingness afterwards. It was as close to the inner peace he once felt on the cusp between life and death as he could reach without dying for real.

His hand caressing Harry's neck, Draco leant down and gave his companion a breath of life, as if to proclaim that Harry's life and death hinged on his whim, that he could switch from being Harry's murderer to being Harry's saviour in a heartbeat. There was something twisted about him, he knew, and yet Harry kept coming back to him for more. Perhaps Harry had a death wish; perhaps he revelled in the thrill of walking on the fine line between life and death. Draco had yet to find out which. The only certainty in a myriad of possibilities was that he came to enjoy Harry's company, Harry's body, and this indefinable relationship of theirs.

"Are you all right?" Draco asked after moving a little away from Harry.

"Yeah." Harry's voice came out raspy and weak. The rush and the blissful emptiness afterwards had passed, and little by little he came back to himself. His throat throbbed with pain, and his inside throbbed in a different kind of rhythm. His wrists bound by Draco's tie, he lifted his arms and encircled them around Draco's neck in languor. "You aren't satisfied with just that, are you?"

A chuckle escaped Draco's lips, and with a calloused hand he stroked Harry's cheek. Those storm grey eyes of his gazed into Harry's misty green eyes, seeing things that he would never tell another soul. "You know me too well," he murmured as his hand glided downwards to Harry's throat, covering the marks he had made upon Harry's skin. "I would have to silence you." And ever so slowly he tightened his grip and robbed Harry of his breath.

Time trickled on with the passing of distant fireworks, and at length stillness returned to the night that bridged past, present and future. Only the spitting of the fire and the murmuring of rain remained in the room. Leaving Harry's motionless body on the rumpled bed, Draco threw on his shirt and trousers, walked barefoot towards the chair that was buried under a heap of Harry's clothes, and rummaged through Harry's belongings.

The wallet in the pocket of Harry's navy blue jeans contained some Muggle money, a driving licence and an Apparition licence. The leather pouch in the outside pocket of Harry's black coat contained a handful of wizarding money. Neither contained what Draco was looking for. Reaching into the inside pocket of the coat, he pulled out a black-covered notebook. The cover of the notebook bore scratches and stains: the owner did not take good care of his possession.

Pressing his lips together, Draco sat down on the bed and skimmed through the notebook. Many of the pages were dog-eared, tell-tale signs of how often its owner flipped through these pages. Sprawled across the pages in black ink were Harry's scrawly handwriting: names, dates, time, places, objects and incidents. There were detailed profiles on certain individuals. There were notes on cause of death and possible leads. There were page number references, as well as codes that Draco could not decipher.

The notes were a mess, jumping from point to point with little regard for connections. Arrows were drawn instead to make up for the absence of order. The notes were thorough to an unsettling degree: they were by the hands and from the mind of someone consumed with an obsession.

When Draco reached the final page, he let out a breath, flipped the notebook close, and glanced over his shoulder at the man lying on the bed. He felt an itch in his skull and a craving for a much needed smoke.

"Not much of a liar, are you?" Draco muttered to no one in particular.

A heartbeat or two later, he retrieved his wand from the nightstand and cast a Doubling Charm on the notebook. A duplicate of the notebook materialised atop the original copy. With a flick of his wand he sent the duplicate to a secret drawer at his house, and with another wave he returned the original copy to where it belonged. He searched Harry's clothes one more time, but there was nothing more to be found.

After throwing the clothes onto the chair in the order that Harry had taken them off, Draco went over to the window and drew the curtains slightly apart. Below, Diagon Alley lay lightless and dead; in the distance, the city dreamt on in the midst of electric lights. Drops of rain gleamed on the window-glass, and a ghost with the same pallid face as Draco returned his gaze.

Without an expression on his face Draco let go of the curtain, and the fabric fell with a rustle back into place, keeping the rest of the world at bay. There would be time for a smoke later, he reasoned as he padded towards Harry's bedside with his hawthorn wand in hand.

Half covered in a rustic blanket of apple red and sunset orange, Harry looked as dead as Snow White in her glass coffin. Coiled loosely around his bruised neck, Draco's silken black tie resembled a snake starved of food. The scene would make for a good picture, Draco thought absently. Reaching down, he brushed away the few dark strands that had fallen over Harry's brow.

"Well then," Draco mused aloud, his finger tracing an imaginary tear streak down Harry's pale cheek, "What am I going to do with you?"

* * *

 _To be continued..._


	3. Phase 3: Silence

Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter and its characters are not mine.

A/N: Happy New Year, everyone. The prompt for this part is _feast_.

 **The Blackbird Falls Silent**

 _Phase 3: Silence_

The first thing Harry felt when he woke up was the comfort of a warm body by his side. The first thing he sought for when he opened his eyes was Draco, who lay asleep beside him. The room was dark still, lit only by the dying fire on the hearth; this long night was far from over. As his gaze darted from the oak bedposts to the stone fireplace at the other end of the room, scenes from earlier in the evening winked in and out of existence inside his head: the rain, the lights, the meeting, the drink, the secrets, the lies, the game. His throat felt dry and sore, and a numbing weariness ate into his marrow.

Dragging himself out of bed, Harry caught sight of Draco's tie on the nightstand. The tie looked a little crumpled after that game of his and Draco's. Feeling guilty, he picked up his wand and cast a charm on the tie to smooth out the wrinkles. With that done he ran his fingertips along the silken fabric. He did not like ties, but he would make an exception if they were Draco's. What did that say about him and whatever it was between him and Draco, he wondered. He left the tie where it was, conjured a glass of water for himself, and went to the window.

The rain had stopped during the night, and the clouds had dispersed to reveal the winter night sky in its full glory. Somewhere beyond Harry's line of sight, the full moon glowed like a fairy lantern in the deep blue velvet sky, and it bled ghost light all over the city. Perhaps that was the reason he had been feeling giddy and restless and mad all evening and into the deep of the night—if only that were indeed the truth. At the thought his lips twisted into a self-deprecating smile.

There was nothing more for him to see. A slight chill had settled in the air; he could feel goose-flesh on his arms. After gulping down some water, he put the glass on the nightstand, climbed into bed, and lay down by Draco's side. In the dimness, Draco did not seem peaceful in his sleep. Had he been working late again? _Or was it something else,_ a voice in Harry's head whispered.

Silence reigned; shadows hovered about, waiting. As a sense of loss loomed over Harry like a spectre, he inched closer to Draco, closer to the warmth of another human body. _Don't think,_ the voice in his head repeated the incantation. _Don't think._ He draped his arm around Draco and rested his head at the crook of Draco's shoulder. "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

Harry froze; the body beneath his arm began to stir. When he felt Draco's hand running up and down along his arm, he willed himself to relax. "Sorry. Did I wake you?"

"I was already awake when you sneaked out of bed and sleepwalked around the room. Seeing as you had a wand with you, I didn't want to call out to you and risk getting hexed."

Harry chuckled before murmuring against Draco's skin. "The rain has stopped. The moon is out right now. The view from the window is quite nice."

"Making small talks about the weather now, are we?" There was a note of incredulity in Draco's voice. A beat or two later, his fingers closed around Harry's wrist. "Is there something you want to tell me?"

"Other than I love you?" Not giving Draco a chance to react, Harry continued. "Let's have breakfast together in the morning. After that, we can go back to my place or your place. I'll make you lunch and dinner if you like, or we can order take-away."

"Am I to be one of your meals for the day?" Draco said in half jest. "I don't mind as long as you let me rest afterwards." In the next beat, the playfulness in his voice was gone, and an undercurrent of something Harry could not define took over in its stead. "Are you lonely?" Draco whispered, and Harry, nestling against Draco, did not answer.

The first morning of the new year began early at the pub. Sitting in the same shady corner as last night, Harry and Draco had a lavish full English breakfast courtesy of Tom the innkeeper. "It's New Year's Day after all." Tom explained while he took in the abstracted expression upon Harry's face and the black cashmere scarf around his neck. "Er. You want to start the new year with a good and hearty breakfast."

"We appreciate it, Tom." Harry smiled a distracted smile at Tom. "Happy New Year."

After giving Draco a knowing look, Tom left him and Harry to their own devices. With a cup of hot tea in his hand, Draco observed Harry over the rim of the cup. Harry was watching the other patrons with those glazed green eyes of his. A wan-looking witch stared into her teacup as if trying to read her own fortune; a goblin poured himself another shot of brandy; and a ruddy-faced wizard devoured a plateful of fry-up with relish.

"What if someone spied on us from the room next to ours last night?" Harry wondered aloud.

"I'll hunt them down, hex them, and erase their memory," Draco replied wryly, but a shadow of doubt and wariness crept into his thoughts. "Do you think someone was spying on us?"

"No, it's just paranoia. You know how bad I can be at times." With that Harry smiled a crooked smile, picked up his cup of tea, and breathed in the floral scent of citrus. The listlessness in his demeanour fell away, and his countenance became ever more awake and alive. "I miss the honey-and-lemon water you make."

Draco let out a chuckle or two before gazing at Harry with a quirk of a smile upon his lips. "I'll make as many glasses for you as you like."

* * *

Blue evening light flooded unbidden into a spacious bedroom lit by a single table lamp. Lying on his stomach upon Draco's bed, Harry was fast asleep beneath the leaden-blue blanket, his arm thrown across one of the pillows. On the nightstand were Harry's holly wand, Draco's hawthorn wand, and a glass of warm honey-and-lemon water. By the window was a black leather armchair and a small glass table. A cigarette was burning in the ashtray, its ashes joining the ashes of what was once a written note specifying the time and place of a meeting.

Clad in a plain white shirt and black trousers, Draco sat cross-legged on the armchair, his hands holding open a copy of today's _Evening Prophet_. The headline of the evening read: _Former Auror found dead in Muggle hotel room._

"... _Initial report suggests Moran died of asphyxiation on New Year's Eve. Officials would not comment on whether his death was accidental, suicide or murder. But an inside source reveals that his death might be the result of an erotic game gone wrong. An investigation is pending. Moran participated in..._ "

A rustle and a moan disrupted the tranquil air in the bedroom. Draco looked away from the newspaper and found Harry sitting up on the bed in his unclothed glory, his dark hair tousled and his verdant gaze groggy with sleep.

"Good evening. Did you sleep well?"

"Yeah." Yawning, Harry crawled out of bed, grabbed the glass of honey-and-lemon water Draco had prepared for him, and sauntered over to where Draco sat. "Good evening." Without trepidation or shame he slid onto Draco's lap, threw one leg over the leather armrest, and took a sip from the glass. "What are you reading?"

With his lap full of a capricious and naked Harry Potter, Draco heaved a sigh and held the newspaper open for Harry to see. "One of your former colleagues was found dead in a Muggle hotel room. Moran's his name. Asphyxiation, they say, and something about an erotic game."

"Oh." There was a pause as Harry squinted at the print. Near the bottom of the page was an article bearing the title _Three former Aurors dead in six months: The mystery deepens._ "I'd probably have to go to the funeral."

"Do you know him well?" Draco asked while contemplating Harry's face.

Tilting his head slightly to one side, Harry took his time to respond. "We worked on a few cases together, but we didn't talk much outside of work. And I'm no Legilimens." With that he gulped down some honey-and-lemon water, let out a breath, and placed the glass on the table.

"You should be careful, you know," Harry remarked in a wry tone. "Your being an expert in games and all. You don't want people to think you have anything to do with it."

"Well, according to this article, you should be careful too," Draco drawled while tapping on the article near the bottom of the page. "You are a former Auror after all."

Narrowed green eyes studied Draco's stoic visage; lucid grey eyes in turn beheld Harry's blank face. Draco thought about the names in Harry's notebook; he thought about the names in the articles; and he thought about the dead man whom he had met. He could keep a secret as well as Harry could.

Letting go of the newspaper in his hand, Draco caught Harry by the nape and pressed his lips to Harry's, silencing them both. The newspaper fluttered with a rustle to the ground, forgotten. Stricken with an urgent need to feel Harry's skin beneath his hands, Draco wrapped his arms around Harry's waist, and Harry, murmuring incoherence into Draco's mouth, clung onto Draco lest he fall and shatter into pieces.

After giving Draco one last peck on the lip, Harry drew back and ran his thumb over the slightly swollen lips he had kissed. "I'll cook," he whispered as Draco watched him with heavy-lidded eyes, eyes that had witnessed his secret but would reveal none of their own. "What do you want for dinner?"

* * *

 _Finis._

A/N: This is a somewhat chilling piece that has been dipped in poison. There are hints and red herrings, truth and half-truth and lies. This story is better read from beginning to end in a single seating, but due to various reasons I split it into three parts.

If anyone is interested, a slightly expanded author's note can be found under the "Author's note" tag on my LJ (lee_bella DOT livejournal DOT com) or DW (lee_bella DOT dreamwidth DOT org) accounts. Thank you for reading.


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